


For Annie

by ifuckboyswhofuckgirls (cadmiumredvulpini)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Dreams, M/M, dream death, edgar allan poe - Freeform, just because
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 16:00:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5503934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadmiumredvulpini/pseuds/ifuckboyswhofuckgirls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He's not standard-issue stormtrooper, after all.</i>
</p><p>Finn dreams, but Poe's reality. (3 dreams + 1 reality)</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Annie

**Author's Note:**

> Because I could not get through that film without having this ship in my head (except when, you know, except _when_ ), and I just had to write this.
> 
> Making my mark on the stormpilot fandom for the first time. Go easy.

Stormtroopers don’t have dreams—or at least they’re not supposed to.

Maybe that’s what the medicine that goes with their night rations are for: keeping them in a drug-induced, robotic sleep mode, preventing them from overexerting their tired minds and bodies by eliminating dreams.

But this time, Finn’s eyelids shift slightly, and rapid eye movement sets in—he hasn’t had a dream since, what, he can’t remember. The first thing he sees is Poe Dameron.

Poe Dameron in his fighter pilot suit, helmet pulled over his handsome head, a smile gracing the wonderful curve of his mouth. No, now, growing into a laugh. Finn can’t help but smile, and his muscles pull along his cheeks and it surprises him, there’s a little pain—maybe he hasn’t smiled in a long while as well.

Or, there haven’t been a lot of reasons to smile in a long time, too.

But Poe Dameron… Poe Dameron—damn that contagious joy and easy, unrestrained laugh. And then Poe gets into that fighter ship, his eyes behind the visor and, like he was never there, disappears into light speed.

But Finn can still remember that laugh and that smile.

And when he wakes up in a clean, white bed, a ring of medical metal at his back, the thousand screens scattered around the glass room beeping with each movement, each breath, each blink, he sees that same laugh and that same smile.

That same Poe Dameron.

—

_This is weird._

This is a weird, weird dream.

He’s not supposed to be here—it’s common stormtrooper knowledge that he can't be completely naked, let alone where he is right now.

He’s not supposed to be here—in Poe Dameron’s quarters, without his armour or his shirt or his underclothes, because he’s supposed to stay with General Organa, old, strict, sad, General Organa (that’s not _working_ ) with her five thousand wrinkles and her sagging smiles (think of something else, _anything else_.)

Finn recalls Maz, recalls her orange skin and her small stature and her giant, spectacle-magnified eyes ( _think, Finn,_ think!) and her weird, spherical skull with the slimy, glossy, skin wrapped tight ( _not the word you’re looking for, Finn_ ) around it.

(Too late.)

They’re not supposed to feel this. And maybe that’s what their breakfast ration is supposed to do, take away the pleasure and satisfaction so they kill who they kill and do what their supposed to do without any other emotion but _obey_.

He’s not supposed to feel _that_ when Poe Dameron (or at least _dream_ Poe Dameron) backs up against him, slamming his ass right against Finn’s cock making him double over with an overwhelming _good, so good._ And the sound Poe makes when he stays right in deep when he comes inside him, convulsing and shaking every last drop into Poe’s willing asshole, is positively decadent.

And Finn feels divine. ( _But mostly he's surprised he knows this much anatomy._ )

This is a weird, weird dream; he wakes up with a thick, clear liquid staining his trousers.

—

This dream is different. There’s a word they use—a nightmare, that’s it—for when there are no lights and no joy, and no smiles from Poe Dameron. 

This is a nightmare, Finn thinks, Finn knows. Because Poe Dameron is lying on a plain, white, bed, with a plain, white, sheet over his body, but they don’t cover his head. The thin cloth ends right at his throat, up until his ankle, and it’s too wide—it was probably made for some other creature, not Poe Dameron, no.

And Rey’s there on the other side of Poe, her eyes downcast, tears already dry, and she nods to Finn, and she leaves the dark, impossibly dark room—the only light coming from somewhere above Finn, and fading quickly a few feet from Poe’s bed. No walls, no floor. No medical metal and flashing, beeping screens.

This dream is different. And there’s a word they use—unhappiness, loneliness, sadness, desolation—that Finn thinks can’t describe how he feels right now. There’s no word they use that can match the bitter, agonizing pain that’s screaming and tearing at his heart right now.

Stormtroopers aren’t supposed to feel their hearts. And maybe that’s what the monthly injections are for, it’s supposed to take away the pain, the fear, but what it does is it removes your heart, clouds your judgement, eliminates emotion to make room for unwavering loyalty and obedience.

But Finn can still remember that laugh and that smile, and it only makes it worse. Impossibly worse.

Finn once asked Poe about his name. Poe only smiled and said, _F-N, Finn, just, something I came up with at the moment._

And then Finn asked about Poe’s name, and he smiles again, that wonderful, beautiful smile that sends a jolt of electricity bubbling up his spine and down the pit of his stomach. _Well you see, there was a poet once, a real good one,_ he starts, and then pauses _well, I don’t really know much about him but he was really good._

Finn blushes and turns away, then says he doesn’t know what a _poem_ is.

Instead of answering him, Poe says _And I lie so composedly,_  
_Now in my bed,_  
_(Knowing her love)_  
_That you fancy me dead—_  
_And I rest so contentedly,_  
_Now in my bed,_  
_(With her love at my breast)_  
_That you fancy me dead_ —  
_That you shudder to look at me,_  
_Thinking me dead: —_

But right then, General Organa interrupts, and Finn wants to hear the rest of it. 

Perhaps he’ll never get to hear the rest of it, now.

—

This isn’t a dream.

This isn’t a dream, Finn knows that, because he knows exactly how he got here, and boy, was it not easy.

It took him a few weeks—twelve, which is decidedly not a few, especially with the thousand interruptions and missions—to finally get everything into place.

It was hell to actually _have_ music playing in the Falcon, it took a lot of asking permission from Chewie and a hell of a favour from Rey, but he got it, had the speakers right in the cockpit, and then he’d had to face it directly at the sunset, which was a little difficult since there were a few places around base that had a good view.

But he finally did it, and last, but definitely not the least were these flowers that he’d had to take care of for at least a week because he’d gotten them all the way from Maz’s watering hole. 

And he’s here, right now, in front of Poe _damn-that-smile-_ Dameron, a bouquet of red and orange flowers in front of the red and orange sunset, in red and orange fighter pilot uniforms, asking him how he finished that poem.

And instead of answering him, Poe leans forward, whispers _had to go through all of that trouble for this?_ , and then presses the softest, lightest—not to mention first—kiss against Finn’s lips. He's not standard-issue stormtrooper, after all.

_Been waiting forever to do just that, buddy._

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think?
> 
> Poem by Edgar Allan Poe. 
> 
> How it actually ends:
> 
> _But my heart it is brighter_  
>  Than all of the many  
> Stars in the sky,  
> For it sparkles with Annie --  
> It glows with the light  
> Of the love of my Annie --  
> With the thought of the light  
> Of the eyes of my Annie. __


End file.
